


Cinderfëa and the Seven Princes

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Back to Middle-Earth Month 2019, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Fairy Tale Elements, Father/Son Incest, Feanorian OT8, Hand Jobs, Identity Porn, M/M, Multi, Sexual Roleplay, Sibling Incest, Tirion, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 13:38:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18209024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: A Fëanorian OT8 retelling of Cinderella.





	Cinderfëa and the Seven Princes

**Author's Note:**

> Back to Middle-earth Month cards: 
> 
> March 1, G48, Feanatics: Indis, history's first wicked stepmother  
> March 5, B12, Blind Guardian Lyrics: Blackheart, show me what you hold in hand  
> March 8, G54, Feanatics: that weaselly Fingolfin, reprise  
> March 8, G54, Blind Guardian Lyrics: Damned shall thy house be

Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a sad little boy. Of all the children in that wide and beautiful land, he was the only one filled with sorrow, for his mother Míriel Therindë, the famous Broideress, had departed from their home in Tirion and her body lay unmoving in the Gardens of Lórien, while her spirit fled to the Halls of Mandos, there to rest in the peace of death. 

So young Fëanáro (for that was our hero's name) and his father, Finwë, King of the Noldor, grieved their mother and wife for long years, and became at the same time all in all to each other. The people often said that there was a double bond of love upon their hearts, for the King had been both father and mother to little Fëanáro. 

But in time Finwë's grief passed, and he brought home another wife, golden Indis. And she was in all ways unlike Míriel, for she was of the people of the Vanyar, and had no craft as the Noldor did. She sang and laughed, and the palace was filled with seeming-joy once again, for all but for Fëanáro, who could not forget his own mother, and could not accept Indis in her place. 

At first Indis was friendly enough to him, but in her smiles hid secret ambition, for this boy was all that stood between her own firstborn son and the kingship of the Noldor. Although Fëanáro was wise for his years and saw the snake behind her smiles, he could not know when she began to plot with her sons to usurp his heirdom. 

The first of her sons was Nolofinwë, and it was he who Indis loved most, being tall and gracious, the very image of his father King Finwë. In him she cultivated patience, saying, "Behold how Fëanáro is rash and impulsive, and ever among the cinders of the forge, so that his clothing is worn and stained. Be always finely clothed and fair of manner. You need not dirty yourself with the crafts of the Noldor; you need no craft but statecraft to win the hearts of the people and the crown of your father." 

So it was that Nolofinwë followed in his father's footsteps, learning the subtle art of politics and the ponderous ways of government. Ever he was gracious in public to his elder brother, but in private he called him Cinderfëa and mocked him for his rough appearance and his impulsive, hasty manner of speaking, so like his mother. 

The second son of Indis was called Arafinwë, and though he looked like his mother, he held no wit nor subtlety in his brain, and spent his days lounging on the beach, collecting seashells, and drinking wine. 

Fëanáro grew in strength and wisdom until he was the finest smith in all of Aman. He made many great and glorious works, including the Tengwar, Fëanorian Lamps, and the Palantíri, along with many fine jewels filled with wondrous light. He also wed Nerdanel the sculptor, and together they had seven sons, all of them talented and handsome. When they were grown, however, he and Nerdanel quarrelled, and she left him, returning to her father’s lands. 

In the course of time, Indis announced a great ball to be held in the palace of Tirion. In her secret heart she hoped that Nolofinwë would take the kingship of the Noldor from his father soon, defeating Fëanáro and disowning him. Long had Nolofinwë spoken to Finwë of the faults and failings of Fëanáro and of his own so-called loyalty and talent, and the old bonds of love between Finwë and Fëanáro almost were lost beyond recovering. 

The day of the ball, the brother of Míriel, Tórin, was in the royal palace on an errand and overheard the servants speaking of the upcoming party. Astonished, for he had received no invitation and knew nothing of it, he ran to Fëanáro's home and burst into the forge, seeing him all covered in soot and sweat from the forge-fires. 

"The Queen is holding a grand ball!" he exclaimed. "Do you know of this?" 

Fëanáro set down his hammer and took Tórin by the hand. "It's good to see you, uncle!" he said. "Yes, my sons have been invited but I have been strictly forbidden from attending. Nolofinwë himself brought me the news earlier today and scorned my ragged appearance, saying that I could be king of the forge if I wished but I would never be king in Tirion." 

"And you're just going to let that pass? You're not going?" Torin asked. 

Fëanáro shrugged. "What I can do? Truly, this forge is fairer than Tirion's palace." 

Tórin shook his head. "Fëanáro," he said firmly, "you shall go to the ball! Your mother would want you to. She foresaw this and made something for you to wear. It's been kept safe for all these years in her old rooms in the palace." 

Fëanáro smiled. "Very well, then, if it's what my mother would want." He lay aside his work, doused the forge-fires, and followed Tórin, but not without taking from a hidden place his newest and fairest work, the shining Silmarils, lit from within by the light of the Trees themselves. 

Taking Fëanáro by the hand, Tórin led him up the streets of the city and they slipped through a back door into the palace, and thence to the ancient wing of the palace where Míriel had once plied her hands in embroidering many fair garments. There among the dust of the rooms a shining set of robes stood upon a mannequin, kept from the decay of time by Míriel's magics. 

As Fëanáro gazed in wonder at it, Tórin spoke quickly. "We don't have too much time to get you cleaned up and ready! But this one thing I must tell you: the magic holding these garments together will expire if they are exposed to the full light of Laurelin. You must be back in this room before the Mingling has changed Telperion's light for Laurelin's." 

"I will be," Fëanáro said. 

A mad rush followed and before Fëanáro could stop to think, he was bathed, dressed, his hair was braided, he was given earrings, bracelets, a mask to hide his eyes, and even a long necklace of glimmering gems, and was almost at the point of being sent down to the ballroom. "Wait," he said. "Before I go." He rushed over to his discarded clothes and withdrew a circlet with the Silmarils shining in it, as Tórin gasped in wonder. 

He smiled mysteriously and donned the coronet, appearing like one of the very Valar themselves. "Now I am ready."

"Have fun!" Tórin said, laughing. "You are sure to outshine everyone there. But don't forget, return here before the Mingling is done!" 

The music from the grand ballroom of the palace could be heard from a long distance away, and Fëanáro slid out a back door, curving around by the street to come in the front again. As he entered the room, for a moment everything seemed to stop, as all the Noldor turned to look at him revealed in glory. But due to the masks all wore, they could not tell who he was, nor could he tell who any of them were. 

First to approach him was a tall Elf with a velvet-smooth voice, whose dulcet tones were familiar to Fëanáro's ears. The red hair falling in thick, luscious waves down his back was the absolute clincher: this was his very own eldest son, Maitimo. 

"My prince, my charming Curufinwë, might I have this dance?" he asked, and at Fëanáro's nod, drew him into the strong circle of his own arms and then into a graceful spinning dance. Fëanáro knew that his eldest was both accomplished and beautiful, but never before had he seen him in the light of a lover, wooing his intended with purpose and skill. 

All while they were dancing, Maitimo kept up a cheerful, high-spirited conversation, making it clear that he had mistaken him for the son who shared his name, and Fëanáro listened to him pattering on with an irrepressible smile on his face. When the music ended, Maitimo kissed him on the cheek, whispering a soft request to see him later on, and when Fëanáro dipped his head in agreement, passed him on to another Elf. 

This one was like a gold and silver flame; his hair was tied up in a messy silver ponytail, and his clothes were already half askew. He had barely taken Fëanáro's hand before he was drawing him close and kissing him. "By the Valar," he roared, almost loud enough to be heard over the music, "thou remind'st me of someone I love!" 

"Do I?" Fëanáro asked, suppressing a grin, for of course this could be no one other than his wild Tyelkormo. "Very quick to use the familiar pronoun, art thou not?" 

"It takes one to know one," Tyelkormo said with a sharp grin,"and thou, pretty one, I'm determined to know better before the Mingling comes." 

"How so?" Fëanáro asked curiously, his pulse beating with a strange undertone of excitement. It was oddly delightful, being masked and unknown to his sons whilst knowing them, and he was determined to keep it up for as long as possible. 

Tyelkormo gave him a lustful smile, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. "Come with me if thou wouldst know." Fëanáro followed, head spinning with anticipation. 

Nearby a dark head emerged from the mass. This Elf was dressed wholly in black from the hood covering his dark head to the soles of his feet, and he whispered a few words to Tyelkormo, then leaned forward, raking Fëanáro up and down with a look of pure wolfish anticipation. 

"Wouldst thou welcome another to our party?" Tyelkormo asked Fëanáro, gesturing to the newcomer. 

It might have fooled anyone else, but to the one who had named him Dark Finwë, Carnistir's costume was no mystery. "I would," Fëanáro said, a softness in his voice for his middle son, and fancied he could see the joy glowing bright in his son's eyes even behind the mask. 

They took him by the hands, and led him out of the ballroom down a short corridor, then into the royal suites, and into the very room he stayed in whenever he had reason to sleep in the palace. Of late, this wasn't often, and his sons used the room instead. 

"Now, Curufinwë, my pretty boy, why wert thou so late?" Tyelkormo asked, laughter in his voice. "And where got thee the gorgeous threads and the shiny jewellery?" 

Fëanáro struggled to keep the smile off his face and instead to adopt the haughty, grumpy attitude so typical of his young namesake. "I wasn't aware I owed explanations to you. Where I was, and how I got the things I'm wearing, are my own business. The both of you dragged me in here to do something, so get on with it." He waved a hand languidly as his son tended to when a conversation bored him. 

"Very well," Tyelkormo said, that wild grin back on his face, and bent to kiss Fëanáro hard, swiping his tongue across Fëanáro's lips and pressing forward until Fëanáro granted him entrance. Against his hip he could feel the bulge of Tyelkormo's cock, obviously aroused, and the feel of it, far from repulsing him, sent a torrent of arousal through him. He hardened immediately, responding to the kiss with much more fervour, wrapping his hands around Tyelkormo's face and up to grab him by the ponytail and steer him as he wished. 

Tyelkormo gave a little surprised gasp and leaned into it, letting Fëanáro manhandle him, continuing all the while to kiss him. When they finally drew back from each other, both were panting. 

Carnistir whistled softly. "I want some of that," he breathed, and at Fëanáro's nod, strode forward, gathering Fëanáro to him, and kissed him deeply. 

Meanwhile Tyelkormo sank to his knees, parting Fëanáro's robes, then pushing up under them and reaching for his cock. "Easy access," he murmured, "wise choice, brother," and Fëanáro had much ado not to laugh into Carnistir's kiss. He chose instead to thrust his hips forward, poking Tyelkormo in the cheek. “Hint taken,” Tyelkormo said with a laugh, and took Fëanáro’s cock deep into his throat. 

Fëanáro gasped, overwhelmed almost from the start. Beside him, Carnistir pressed another burning kiss onto his lips, and then drew back a little. “Might we call you father?” he whispered softly, low and intimate. 

So startled that he nearly lost his arousal, he turned to look Carnistir in the eyes. “ _Why?_ ” he whispered back, urgent and quiet. 

Carnistir only smiled. “You look so much like him,” he said. “And of course we adore you as you are, but you remind us of who we cannot have and always long for.”

Fëanáro understood at last. So much now made sense. He put one hand on Tyelkormo’s head, encouraging him to take him deeper still, and placed the other at Carnistir’s waist. “Of course you may,” he said. 

“Sweet father,” Carnistir said with a groan, and bent to kiss him again, even as Tyelkormo redoubled his efforts. “We adore you so. We all do, all seven of us. We love you with every bit of passion we have to give, and we would show you all of our love, for the rest of time, if you would only allow us.” 

“Show me,” Fëanáro whispered, no longer pretending to be Curufinwë. “Show me your love.” Carnistir was hard where he pressed against him, and Fëanáro took his cock into his hand, stroking him, slow and gentle at first, making Carnistir gasp and groan and bury his head against Fëanáro’s shoulder. 

Leaning back against the bedpost, Fëanáro gave himself up to his sons’ love. His entire world narrowed down to sensation and sound: the heat of Carnistir in his hand, the sounds he made, the feel of Tyelkormo’s mouth on him, wet and warm, sucking strongly in eager pulses. Head spinning, he drowned in pleasure, losing himself to it more quickly than he had since he was a youth. He came into Tyelkormo’s mouth in a matter of moments, feeling Tyelkormo swallow around him, drinking down his seed. 

Carnistir too, was on the point of coming, and Fëanáro wondered, with the tiny bit of his mind that wasn’t dying of pleasure, how to prevent him from coming on the fine garments, but Tyelkormo was ready, and without a word, Fëanáro felt him rising up to take the head of his brother’s cock into his mouth as Fëanáro stroked him into blissful oblivion. 

When he came to himself, he was sprawled halfway across the bed with Carnistir laying half atop him and Tyelkormo sitting beside them with a grin on his face, lazily stroking himself. 

“You make a pretty sight,” he said, and quirked an eyebrow. “Would you like to repay the favour, brother?” 

Smiling, Fëanáro slid out from underneath Carnistir, who groaned faintly at the loss, and knelt on the bed, bending far down to take Tyelkormo’s cock into his mouth. He may have deliberately left his ass up in the air. Even in the robes, he knew he looked good like that. 

Tyelkormo was very aroused, cock red and leaking with pre-cum. Daintly, Fëanáro lapped it up, then bent to take his son into his mouth, sucking and licking at him with careful precision. It was by no means the first time he had done this, but it had been some while. 

Seeming to lose himself in fantasy, Tyelkormo placed his hands gently on top of Fëanáro’s head. “Father,” he whispered, and Fëanáro glanced up at him. “So beautiful, Father.” Tyelkormo’s breath was coming fast, and he could hardly get the words out but seemed determined to say them. “I only wish you knew how much we love and long for you, that this wasn’t just a fantasy, but that I was really with you now.” 

Unable to speak, Fëanáro simply closed his eyes and took Tyelkormo deep, trying to say with action what he could not with words. He lavished love and tenderness on him, stroking up and down his cock with his tongue, pressing quick licks to the head of him, then sucking him in deep, taking him as far as he could down his throat. Tyelkormo could soon only gasp and moan, eyes rolling back in his head, hands resting in Fëanáro’s hair like he had forgotten they were there. 

All too soon it was too much. Tyelkormo came with a final gasp and a cry of “Father!” pulsing hot seed into Fëanáro’s mouth. The taste of him was rich and salty, and Fëanáro drank it down, licking every drop away until Tyelkormo had no more to give. 

Then he rose from the bed, straightened his garments, kissed first Carnistir (who was just beginning to stir), then Tyelkormo. “I must go back to the ball,” he said, and left the room. 

The dancing and music were still as heated as ever, and Fëanáro realised that he’d only been away for an hour or so. He caught a glimpse of Makalaurë among the musicians, and then three redheads, bent together in a corner. He made his way toward them, and the twins greeted him with excitement. 

“Curufinwë!” Pityafinwë exclaimed. “I thought I just saw you going outside! But no matter. I love the circlet. Such bright gems!” 

“They are newly made,” Fëanáro said. Talking about smithwork would give nothing away, for both he and his namesake were smiths. “They were a great work, made in secret, and tonight is the first time I have worn them.” 

“They are beautiful,” Maitimo said, and then, flatteringly, “almost as beautiful as their creator.” 

“Hush, Maitimo, you’ll turn our brother’s head,” Telufinwë said, laughing. 

“It is the three of you who are the beautiful ones,” Fëanáro said, his heart soaring with love and affection — and more than a bit of curiosity and hope.

For that Maitimo leaned forward and kissed him. It was just brief enough of a kiss to make it plausible to be a platonic kiss between brothers, but for an instant where Maitimo’s tongue brushed lightly into Fëanáro’s mouth. With a gasp, Fëanáro felt arousal hit him as though he had not come just a little while ago. What was it about his sons that made them so seductive and inviting? 

“When we get home, I want to have you, Curvo,” Maitimo whispered. “Come to my room.” 

He was prevented from answering by Pityafinwë’s pout. “I was hoping to ask our Curvo that.” 

“Why don’t we all meet in your room, Maitimo?” Telufinwë said. “I’m sure that Curvo would not object to being taken by three gorgeous redheads.” 

And indeed he didn’t. But he couldn’t commit himself. “We shall see,” he said, drawing himself up the way his son did. “I might be tired.” 

The three of them gave him simultaneous smirks. “If you’re tired, you can rest,” Maitimo said, soft and sweet. “You can lie on your back while we fuck you.” 

The image was a compelling one; Fëanáro closed his eyes for a moment, swaying, as he pictured it: his Curvo, on his back, legs raised, while Maitimo pounded into him, that copper hair loose about him, the twins in the background pleasuring each other with their hands while they watched, in preparation for their own turn. 

What would it feel like to be taken by all his sons in turn? To feel their touch everywhere, their hands all over him? Would Carnistir be rough? Would Tyelkormo pull his hair? Would the twins take him at the same time? Would Maitimo hold him up and fuck him against a wall? Would Makalaurë groan as sweetly as he sang? Would Curufinwë enjoy the fact that they looked alike? 

He was brought back to the ball by a kiss on the cheek from Pityafinwë. “See you at home,” his son whispered, teasing. 

He opened his eyes to see Maitimo looking across at the musicians. “I think Káno wants to speak with me,” he said, and gave the three of them a little wave in farewell, before plunging into the crowd. 

“Don’t get too distracted by thoughts of later on, Curvo,” Telufinwë said, and boldly brushed against Fëanáro’s erection. “You should go sit down somewhere and cool off, or you’ll make a scene.”

“Yes,” Fëanáro said, trying to marshall his thoughts. “I’ll go outside for a little while, it’s cooler out there.” 

Outside on one of the palace balconies, Fëanáro looked down the hill of Tirion, seeing the river beneath rushing by, all turned to silver in the light of Telperion. A cool fresh breeze came through the mountain pass, and he breathed in deeply, trying to will his arousal away, overcome by the emotion of everything he had experienced this night. 

His sons were utterly frank, charming, and seductive, and they loved him far more than sons typically loved fathers, and in ways that sons rarely did. And yet it was wrong, according to the Valar, to love them in return. 

Straightening up, he took in another breath. Who gave a fig for the Valar, anyway? He had never let them rule him the way most people did, and he was not about to start now. The things that were wrong about this situation had nothing to do with the Laws and Customs. 

And now the real concerns raised their heads. He was wrong to have deceived them. Yes, the mask was part of the game, but once things became sexual, he should have confessed to Tyelkormo and Carnistir that he was indeed their father in truth, and not their brother. In fact, it almost now felt wrong to be here in the first place, when part of the reason his sons were so sure he was their brother was that he had been forbidden to come. 

Caught up in his thoughts, he failed to notice that golden light had begun to creep up the sky, mingling with the silver shadows. He also did not notice that a dark figure lingered on the balcony, and finally stepped forward to stand beside him.

“Well then, young prince,” he heard Melkor say in dulcet tones, “well met. You wear a fair thing.” He gestured to the circlet on Fëanáro’s head. 

Fëanáro jumped, startled, but quickly recovered. “Ah, it’s the jailcrow of Mandos,” he said. “How’s life out of prison?” 

“Little Curvo!” Melkor said, insouciant. “The prince has got a mouth on him, doesn’t he? It doesn’t behoove the house of Fëanáro to make such snide comments, coming as they do from a pile of cinders. Perhaps that house should look to their inheritance, as they are on the edge of losing it and damning their own house. The high prince Nolofinwë has his father’s ear, and his mother’s love, while _your_ father, pretty Curvo, has nought.” 

“He has his sons,” Fëanáro said. “What more could he need?” 

“Oh, many things,” Melkor answered, not taken aback at all. “A faithful wife. A mother. His father’s devotion. Better clothes. A house in Tirion instead of that ramshackle forge down the hill. Need I go on?” 

“We have our swords and our will, Blackheart,” Fëanáro said, now really angry. “And we know how to use them, and where to point them.” 

Melkor rolled his eyes. “What a pathetic attempt at a threat,” he said. “I thought your father was supposed to be known for his eloquence. Clearly none of that rubbed off on you.” 

Fëanáro’s eyes could have struck fire. “Get thee gone, jailcrow!” he exclaimed. “Leave my family alone.” Whirling about, he marched off, not sensing clever fingers lifting the circlet from his hair as he departed. 

The golden light was growing stronger; he remembered Tórin’s words with a gasp. He had to get back to Míriel’s rooms immediately or he would be too late. He forced himself to walk calmly back into the ballroom, but as soon as he was through it and in a quiet hall, started to run. He did not see Makalaurë staring at him as he went, then turning to see Curufinwë at the other side of the room, and rubbing his eyes trying to figure out what was going on. 

He arrived back in the empty room just as the Mingling was ending and golden light was spilling in through the high windows. The room was shadowy and dim even in the bright light of Laurelin, and slowly he removed his clothing, missing the circlet for the first time. He could not think where it had disappeared, but then remembered Melkor complimenting him on it. His Silmarils were now in the hands of his enemy. 

His first reaction was to get angry at the theft, but then he recalled the safety precautions he had taken with the jewels, and smiled to himself. Melkor would be punished for his thievery. 

\---------

Back in the ballroom, Makalaurë made his way over to Maitimo. “Is it just me,” he said, “or did I just see Curvo twice?” 

“Must be just you,” Maitimo said. “Though Pityo did say he thought Curvo was outside, when he was talking to us. Strange.”

At that moment, Melkor walked in, wearing a circlet of three bright gems. Maitimo frowned. “Curvo was wearing that,” he said. 

Tyelkormo, standing just behind Maitimo, looked out at Melkor. “He definitely was.” There was a smile on his face, and he then whispered into Maitimo’s ear, “Curvo was wearing it while he sucked me off. I’d never mistake it for anything else.” 

“Let’s go,” Maitimo said, and put a hand on Pityafinwë’s arm, encouraging him to turn around. The whole group, Carnistir following, made their way over to Melkor, seeing as they did so that the Vala was in pain, fists clenched, sweat pouring from his forehead. From another part of the ballroom, Curufinwë caught Maitimo’s wave, and came over, mystified. 

“What beautiful gems, Melkor,” Maitimo said. “Show me your hand, where did you get them?”

Melkor stared at the group suspiciously. “None of your business, pretty prince.” 

Carnistir pushed his way forward. “I know where you got them! You stole them from my brother!” He pulled the circlet off Melkor’s head, and with a bow, made to hand them to Curufinwë. “Here are your gems, Curvo.”

Curufinwë tilted his head to the side. “They are very beautiful, Moryo, but they are not mine.” 

Carnistir straightened up, looking around in shock. “No, they are definitely yours, you were wearing them earlier.” 

Curufinwë shook his head. “No, I own no jewels like that.” 

Tyelkormo said what they were all thinking. “Then who…?” He trailed off, not wanting to reveal anything about their relationship in front of Melkor. 

“You see, they are mine!” Melkor said, making a belated grab for them. Carnistir quickly handed them off to Pityafinwë. 

“They may not be Curvo’s, but they are definitely not yours,” Maitimo said. “We shall hold them and search for the true owner.” And as a group, Pityafinwë carefully in the middle holding the circlet, they made their way out of the ballroom, and down the hill toward home. 

Fëanáro arrived home scant minutes before his sons, and to all appearances was fast asleep in his own bed. Maitimo put his head into the room, and then gently closed the door. “No, it can’t have been Father,” he said to the rest of them. “He’s asleep. And he was forbidden from going anyway.” 

Tyelkormo sighed. “Who else could it have been? It sure as anything wasn’t Nolofinwë, and he’s the only one who looks anything like Curvo and Father.” 

“We will wait, and carefully try to figure this out,” Maitimo said. “Now, to bed with all of us.” He smiled across at Curufinwë. “Are you coming?” 

“Coming where?” Curufinwë said. 

“In my bed,” Maitimo said with a grin. “As we asked earlier.” 

“You didn’t ask me,” Curufinwë answered, “but yes!” 

\---------

Fëanáro, far from being asleep, listened as they all went off to various rooms in the house. He sat up, wondering about how to recover his missing gems. The Silmarils were his great work, and he didn’t think he could reproduce them easily. More than that, he was angry to have lost them to Melkor, of all people, and hoped they would cause him great pain. 

It was late in the afternoon before any of his sons stirred from their beds. He found he could not meet Tyelkormo’s eyes, and all but fled from the room when Maitimo appeared, bare-chested and laughing, with Curufinwë beside him, both of them in a very good mood. 

He escaped to the smithy, and began working on a few little projects distractedly. His hands weren’t as steady as they usually were, and he was constantly thinking about Tyelkormo’s silver eyes overwhelmed by pleasure, Maitimo’s tender tones and gentle kiss, the feel of Carnistir’s cock in his hand, the soft laughter of the twins. Even Makalaurë’s voice, beautiful and deep, seemed to spark arousal in him now. With a frustrated sigh, he set his tools down and cast himself into a dusty chair, burying his head in his hands. 

He came back to himself at a gentle touch on his head, and raised his eyes to see Curufinwë standing before him, the circlet in his hands. “This is yours, isn’t it?” he asked softly, laying the circlet gently down on his head. It fit perfectly, and the jewels blazed up, recognising the touch of their maker. 

“Yes,” Fëanáro said. “It’s mine.” 

“And it was you who Moryo and Turko were with last night. You who Maitimo kissed and invited to bed.” 

“Yes,” Fëanáro breathed, hardly daring to move. He felt pinned to the edge of a cliff, on the verge of falling, or of flying. 

Curufinwë took his face between his hands. “ _Father_ ,” he whispered, and bent down, kissing him soundly. “Father.” 

After a long blissful moment, Curufinwë drew back, holding out his hands. Fëanáro took them and stood up. 

“Do you truly want us?” Curufinwë whispered, looking him straight in the eyes. 

“I do,” Fëanáro said solemnly, and Curufinwë smiled. 

“Then, my king,” he said, “your princes are ready for you to join them.”


End file.
